A Baron for Becky

Part 2: Chapter seven

1810, London

As soon as Hugh Overton managed to unstick his eyes and crawl out from whatever was weighing him down, he would search out another drink. He'd been keeping the world's largest hangover at bay for nearly a fortnight, and he wasn't going to stop now.

Meanwhile, he lay still, trying to sort through his memories and match them to sparse sensory information to decide where he was. Aldridge. That's right. And the bet.

He cautiously opened one sticky eye. The room was dim, a matter for gratitude, but light enough to confirm he was in Aldridge's private sitting room in the heir's wing at Haverford House, lying on the enormous fainting couch. And the weight holding his legs in place was a sleeping woman sprawled across his thighs. The untidy mass of brown hair didn't identify her—at least half of the women he'd bedded in Town had brown hair.

'J' something. Joselyn? Johanne? Or was that the other one? There must be two women; the details of the bet were surfacing more clearly in his mind.

Hugh shifted his hips, attempting to slide one leg out from under the woman, whoever she was. She stirred, then sat up in one motion, already talking before she was fully upright. Hugh, who had not yet dared move his head, was all admiration at her resilience.

"Devil take it, I fell asleep. What time is it? Lord Overton, do you know the time? Is it morning? It must be morning. Look at the light!"

As she spoke, she collected pieces of apparel from around the room, a dress, a stocking, another stocking—this one clocked in a different colour. She dropped it back on the floor where she'd found it, and kept searching. "Overton? The time?"

Hugh had been paying attention to her naked curves, not her words. "I beg your pardon, ma'am," he said, unwilling to hazard a guess at the lady's name. "I appear to be without my watch."

She huffed her displeasure through her nose, and marched over to the table, where his watch lay in a heap of other bits and pieces—his coin purse and, undoubtedly, his cuff links and tie pin.

"10 of the clock," the woman said, then, raising her voice, "Jessamine? It is 10 o'clock. We must hurry."

Jessamine. That was it. So this must be the other one. Damned if he could remember her name, though he had rather pleasant memories bombarding him in vignettes of the evening before.

It would be polite to help, with the lady clearly anxious to be on her way. He pulled himself up, wincing at the stab of pain. While he sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for the room to stop spinning, and dinner from the night before to return to his stomach, another woman appeared in the doorway to Aldridge's bedchamber.

This one was fetchingly wrapped in a sheet, trailing behind her. "Lillian? Did you say 10 o'clock? Oh, merciful Heavens, what if I am not home before Bally?"

That name rang a bell. Bally. The Earl of Ballingcroft. This fair lady must be his countess, then. Hugh managed to stand and bow, politely.

"Bally is unlikely to leave Baroness Farliegh's bed before noon, my dear," her friend advised. "Which was, if you remember, rather the point of you being here."

The Countess of Ballingcroft tossed her dishevelled head. "Sauce for the gander, Lillian." But her moment of defiance dissolved back into worry. "But I can't be seen leaving Aldridge's house."

"You will not, my dear. Trust me for that." The drawl belonged to Aldridge, leaning against the doorway to his study. Fully and immaculately attired, apart from his jacket, he looked as if he'd been up for hours. Based on Hugh's prior nights of raking and mayhem with the Merry Marquis, he probably had.